Famous fairy tales revisited: the Goose Girl
by hobgoblin123
Summary: A Coldfire Trilogy version of the fairy tale "the Goose Girl"
1. Black Ridge Pass

**Famous fairy tales revisited, Coldfire style: the Goose Girl**

Disclaimer: I don't own either the "Coldfire Trilogy" or "The Goose Girl", and no profit or harm is intended.

Author's note: Well, I've been planning a Coldfire version of some of the well-known fairy tales collected by the Brothers Grimm for quite a while now. Unfortunately "Little Red Riding Hood" is on hiatus at the moment (just too many projects, and not much spare time...), but I'm also working on "The Sleeping Beauty", and there might be a "Cinderella" version one day, an obvious choice if one of your protagonists has to put up with eight rather nasty siblings and a beastly father on top of his misfortune.

The following story is very loosely based on "The Goose Girl", although it includes neither a goose girl nor any geese whatsoever, lol. I've got a rather vivid imagination, but try as I might I simply couldn't bring myself to picture the former Hunter minding some fowl for his livelihood. The poor horse Falada is part of the story, though, plus some hair braiding and hat chasing… The setting is slightly A/U (no revelations on Black Ridge Pass), by the way.

**Chapter One: Black Ridge Pass**

Once upon a time on a far away planet, when wishing still did some good if one was prepared for the ultimate sacrifice, a former priest stood on Black Ridge Pass and watched while the flames consumed the domain of his deceased companion, the Hunter.

_Deceased, ha!_ Damien thought grimly. Murdered by his last living descendant who'd been wax in Calesta's and the patriarch's merciless hands would certainly hit home more closely, and gritting his teeth against the pain and his helpless wrath Damien clenched and unclenched his hands, vainly trying to bleed off some of the tension.

Vryce had never denied that Tarrant's repulsive crimes had cried to heaven, but the Hunter had already died on Mount Shaitan, and the man who had been killed at the keep had been mortal again, a human being who had just saved the world by sacrificing his next-to-immortal existence. God had shown mercy on his fallen prophet and had offered that unbelievable chance of redemption, but as usual humankind had failed to match the Lord's generosity. All that had been left to Gerald Tarrant was that one single, precious sunrise, the first dawn he had seen after more than nine hundred years of walking in the darkness.

Remembering Gerald's dirty, now so human face, tilted upwards to meet the rising sun with a disbelieving smile, Damien's throat constricted painfully, and he lifted a shaking hand to wipe away the unbidden tears that were starting to flow again. Why the heck couldn't he stop crying? The man had grown on him over the years they'd spent together, had become a friend against all odds, but Tarrant had been wiped off the face of the planet by a drug-addicted, half crazed kid in an act of cruel, pointless revenge, and he had come to terms with that fact sooner or later.

_Let's face it, Vryce_, Damien thought with a small grain of that familiar dry humor that must have been rubbed off on him by his late companion, _in this special case you might have to settle for 'a lot later, if ever'._

Before the bloody fools had set the Hunter's domain on fire at the end of the dry season the warrior knight had even sneaked into the forest and rummaged through the rubble of what had once been a proud, black castle in a desperate attempt to recover Gerald's beheaded body, bowing down to the grisly task with grim determination.

Burying the sad remains of an existence of nearly a thousand years might have given him a sense of closure, but he hadn't found any bones, not even Tarrant's severed head in the pyre's remnants. So he had finally knelt on the bare earth and had recited the Prayer for the Dead, slowly and tenderly, pouring his very soul into the ancient verses, and every word had been a blade that cleaved his heart into tiny, bleeding bits. Very likely no memorial would ever be built to honor the man who had rescued humanity from falling into the clutches of a sadistic, power-crazy demon, but for those who had known him Gerald Tarrant's headstone were the stars he had loved so much and had never stopped yearning for, and Damien's heart.

All at once something dark and vicious moved against the clouds, and Damien snapped out of his reverie and brought up his springbolt, but a deafening crack startled him, and he missed the shot by an inch or two. The marksman didn't, and several tourists applauded when the demon exploded into bloody pieces, the shower of black blood and fragments failing to drench the enthusiastic crowd by a hair's breath. Rubbing his tortured ears Vryce whirled around, just to come face to face with a young man who nodded at him apologetically.

Damien's verdict was swift and derogatory: a spoiled brat in expensive clothes who very likely hadn't lifted so much as a slender finger in his life, except cleaning his daddy's expensive collection of firearms. The youth was pretty in an androgynous, delicate way, the thick, black braid nearly waist-length, the olive skin smooth and unblemished. Dark eyes framed with long lashes gazed arrogantly at the world, and their haughty expression and unwavering gaze reminded the warrior knight of another face, now lost to the world forever. Damien's heart clenched painfully and he averted his eyes from the unsettling stare.

"Hard to believe that he's gone, isn't it?" (CoS, page 521)

Involuntary Damien gulped down some air. What he really didn't need on top of his misery was a nice small talk about the Hunter's demise, and most certainly he had no intention of discussing his troubled feelings with a complete stranger. With his looks and money the youth wouldn't have any problems to find more talkative and enthusiastic company, and Vryce never even bothered to answer. With a curt nod he descended from Black Ridge Pass, but he didn't fail to notice that those dark, fathomless eyes never stopped drilling metaphorical holes into his back until he was out of sight.

To Damien's utter amazement it took him all his remaining resolve not to look back. Something had been very unsettling concerning the stranger, but his mind clouded with grief and despair he wasn't able to lay a finger upon it yet, and for his taste he had solved enough mysteries to last him a lifetime.

Suppressing a shiver Vryce realized that he had to get away from Black Ridge Pass with its crowd of gloating tourists and the never-waning smell of burning wood, away from that wretched place thriving on the demise of his friend just like the vile creatures in the Hunter's lair had thrived on death and decay, so close to the accursed spot where all his hopes for the future had been shattered before he'd even had the guts to admit them to himself. That hadn't come until later, when he had been forced to endure the sight of grey eyes staring blankly into eternity, beautiful even in death, and of those delicate features blackening in the scorching flames of a bonfire.

Damien swallowed a mouthful of bile and tried to make up his mind. So close to the dividers it would be sensible to head home, leave everything behind and start anew with the help of his siblings, but frankly he didn't feel up to meet the questioning stares of his relatives. The church had always been his vocation, the place where he truly belonged, and digging up some believable explanation why he'd resigned from his priesthood required an effort of will and imagination he simply wasn't able to muster yet, not while his grief was still fresh and his heart a bleeding mess.

_You belonged at his side, but you left him to die,_ his guilty conscience whispered, _and if you couldn't have saved him you should have died with him_.

The terrible temptation to take matters into his own hands, if only to escape his very private hell of shame and remorse, had become a constant companion since the adept had perished in his stronghold a few weeks ago, and although defiling the sword of his order with the cardinal sin of suicide wasn't quite an option surviving Tarrant's death was a mistake that could be remedied easily.

Vryce was sufficiently proficient in herb lore to concoct a strong potion from certain plants, or he could simply acquire a lethal dose of the pills Andrys Tarrant had reportedly been so fond of and doze off peacefully into a better world. If everything else failed he still had his knife, but as usual his hand was stilled by the weird musing what Gerald's acerbic tongue eventually might have to say concerning his deplorable tendency to wallow in guilt and self-pity when they met again in the afterlife. Despite his sorrow Damien smiled faintly, lost in his memories.

Several days later Damien was still drifting aimlessly, spending most of the daylight hours on Black Ridge Pass and gazing at the smoking forest with burning eyes. To his utter amazement an incomprehensible part of himself had been longing for the reappearance of the nosy, intrusive youth, but the spoiled brat had never returned and was probably busy telling his well-to-do drinking mates about his daring demon shooting for the umpteenth time. To his dismay Vryce was torn between disappointment and stark relief. Something had been so very strange about that chance encounter in the dawn of a new world, so unnerving that just thinking of it gave him the creeps.

Damien shook his head like a horse trying to shoo away a bunch of irksome flies. Over the last few days he had felt increasingly fidgety, his restlessness getting stronger and stronger with each passing hour until his legs were twitching and he was coming close to twiddling his thumbs in despair. The world was still turning, and he couldn't remain on Black Ridge Pass forever, mourning Tarrant's passing. Gerald was gone for good, and as much as the thought still hurt the time to move on and get a life again had finally come.

Seemingly out of the blue an idea struck Damien, and he made for his lodgings to gather his scarce possessions. A few hours later the warrior knight was on his way to Jaggonath.


	2. The Skull

**Chapter two: the Skull**

When Damien finally approached the northern city gate of Jaggonath he instantly regretted his rash decision. Whole throngs of people, festively dressed and in a splendid mood, evidently had come to the same conclusion and were heading for a city already overflowing with citizens and visitors. Flags displaying the municipal coat of arms were fluttering merrily in the faint breeze, side by side with the Church's banner with its golden, interlinking circles and a proud standard with the Tarrant family crest that he had so often seen engraved on Gerald's slender knife, the very knife the adept had passed him in the Undying Prince's keep and that had been used by poor, little Jenseny to end her young life.

Memories welled up with a vengeance, and Damien's heart skipped a beat while his throat constricted painfully. So much suffering, so much death, and nobody of those deluded fools who were still celebrating the Hunter's demise would ever honour his companions' bravado in the face of certain death.

Going was slow, and it seemed to take hours until Damien finally rode through the city gate. As if forced by a silent command his gaze moved upwards, and when his mind was finally able to process the visual input his world stopped turning.

The head of a beautiful black horse, perfectly preserved by the artful skills of the embalmers, had been nailed to the gate, right next to a grinning, blackened skull, and to Damien's utmost horror a lot of people spat on the floor while passing under the grisly sight, the act of utter contempt more often than not accompanied by a warding gesture.

For a moment Damien's mind blanked out, and he forgot how to breathe, the excited chattering all around him and the noises of a bustling city drowning in a surge of revulsion and hatred so overwhelming that his sword was already halfway out of its scabbard before his mind caught up with his involuntary movement. Dear God in Heaven, that had to be one of Gerald's sophisticate nightmares, crafted by that unrivalled master of fear to drive him out of his mind with naked dread. Humanity simply couldn't stoop so low, to levels that would have befitted the perverted cravings of the demonic, but not sane people with beating, feeling hearts.

It might have been an olfactory hallucination, a product of his overwrought mind, but Damien's nostrils flared when the repulsive scents of embalming fluids and cold ash, mingling with the sweet-and-sour stench of putrefaction, assaulted his nose, drowning the smells of a sweating crowd, horse shit and hot pastries sold by very busy hawkers. Vryce gagged, and he'd just urged his nervous chestnut mare aside to a spot that was just slightly less packed than the rest of the square when his stomach turned, emptying its contents on the cobblestones.

His helpless retching seemed to last for an eternity, and when he was at long last able to pull himself together and blink the water from his eyes his shirt was sticking to his shaking body. Having forced his clenched fists to let go of the rains Vryce had just wiped his mouth with his handkerchief when a cackling voice was cutting through his wrath and disgust.

"Not a pretty sight, eh, son? But serves him right, it does. Hope that the bastard roasts in hell, right where he belongs. But a seasoned warrior like you should be used to some chopped off heads, considering the mighty sword you've got."

Gritting his teeth to suppress his nausea Damien turned round to face the scrubby, white-haired fellow who was eying him suspiciously.

"Must have eaten a bad bite", Vryce forced out hoarsely, barely managing to move his white, numb lips. He was very well aware that a worked up crowd like this could turn into something much more nasty in a blink, and may God have mercy upon him if somebody rose the suspicion that he might have been in league with the Hunter. As tempting as the oblivion offered by death might have been during the last weeks he wasn't too keen on being ripped apart by a vulking lynch mob.

The old man cackled again, a bit more amicably now. "That ye folks from the country never know how to be careful, son. A lot of people have to be fed during the festivities, and some foul mouthed scandalmongers claim that even the rats are gettin' scarce. What do you think are all those mouth-watering pasties are made of?"

Howling with laughter at his own pun his grating companion patted Damien's left leg sympathetically. "Just a joke, son, just a joke by old Larkin. You don't have to turn white as a sheet again, and don't you dare puking on my nice Sunday shoes."

By now Damien harboured the well-founded suspicion that the ageing process had addled Larkin's brain cells, but keeping matters friendly despite his loathing might be advisable if he wanted to wheedle out some valuable information from the old bugger.

"Don't worry about your shoes, Mer Larkin", the warrior knight forced out between clenched teeth, "I'm all right now." A blatant lie, if there'd ever be one. Damien still felt dizzy and sick to his bones, but he desperately tried to get a grip on himself. Maybe he could sneak back here at the dead of night and rescue Gerald's skull from its abominable resting place to bury it at a secret place deep in the woods, protected by some ancient trees which had always provided shelter and comfort to his unfortunate companion.

For a moment Damien closed his eyes and silently prayed to God that wherever Gerald Tarrant was in his afterlife he would never know how his mortal remains had been put on public display by the very church he had founded for the benefit of mankind. _Rest in peace, my friend, far, far away from the clutches of human wickedness and ridicule._

Drawing a deep breath to calm himself Damien pushed down his disgust and tried to force the pale ghost of a winning smile on his face. "Please tell me, Mer, what festivities are you talking about? Each and everybody seems to be flocking into town today."

Larkin stared at him wide-eyed, and a glint of suspicion returned to his questioning gaze. "In which bloody backwater have you been hiding for the last months, son? We are celebrating the triumphant return of our valiant crusaders, including a parade and a festive church service in honor of Andrys Tarrant, the Neocount of Merentha."

Taking in Damien's bleak stare the old man pointed upwards. "The brave lad who did away with that accursed monster, God bless him. In about an hour the circlet of the Neocounty will be placed on that pretty head in our famous cathedral. One should think…"

The warrior knight never found out what one should think, because their small talk was interrupted by the shrill blaring of trumpets which effortlessly cut through the general hubbub, announcing the imminent arrival of the crusaders. The seething crowd erupted into a mighty cheer while hats and caps were flung into the air, small children were lifted onto protesting shoulders and a shower of flowers was covering the path of the victorious army.

Damien had been quite sure that things couldn't get any worse, but he had been wrong. When the first rows of riders entered the gate, led by a tall figure clad in white and gold, its armor glittering in the sunlight, thousands of hysterical voices merged into one, rhythmically chanting the name of their hero, and Vryce prayed that the earth might open under him and devour him whole.

Astoundingly the troops stopped dead in their tracks a short way into the packed plaza, the delay accompanied by some agitated gesturing towards the archway's vile adornment and a disgusted outcry of Andrys that could be heard even over the droning of the crowd. Damien couldn't help but looking at the younger Tarrant, the man who'd killed his companion, his friend, the being he'd sworn to kill years ago but had come to cherish albeit their tumultuous relationship.

As Vryce remembered from their short encounter at the Hunter's keep the resemblance was striking, and the warrior knight forgot how to breathe. For a moment he travelled back in time while his feverish imagination replaced Andrys with Gerald himself, King Gannon's strategist returning home from the battlefield with his troops, and Damien allowed himself a short moment of weakness, feasting on the pale, delicate features, a living reminder of Gerald's tired, but still beautiful face during the last, scarce hours of his freshly regained humanity on their fateful way to his domain.

Damien fervently hoped that somehow, someday, that precious memory would erase the atrocious sight of a blackened skull nailed to a city gate and the empty stare of those unseeing, grey eyes that had been haunting him for weeks now, inspiring nightmares beyond anything he had thought possible even after having placed himself as the main course on the Hunter's menu for months on end.

Vryce's knuckles were white around the rains, and tears were running down his weathered face, but he made no attempt to hold them back. Andrys was still wiping his right cheek frantically, and blinking to clear his blurred sight Damien realized with a start that a smear of blood was sullying the young man's face.

His eyes wide with fear the Neocount turned back and fixed the two heads anew, and Damien could have sworn that his lips trembled. What the hell had happened while the troops had passed the gate? The only possible explanation was that either the skull or the embalmed horse head had shed some drops of blood which had found their way onto the Neocount's face, an incredible coincidence that caused Damien's barely settled stomach to spasm uncomfortably anew.

Still perched on his mare the warrior knight had a good view of the strange occurrences, and relying on his warrior instincts he instantly scanned his surroundings for an impending threat when Andrys blanched, his eyes bulging with unspeakable horror. The Neocount swayed in his saddle, and for a moment Damien expected him to drop off his horse, but the young man caught himself at the last possible instant. Following Andrys' line of sight Vryce gasped in stunned surprise.

The sight that greeted him was neither intimidating nor repulsive at all, but rather pleasant to look at: a lithe figure clad in red and black, long, black hair caught in a braid and a pretty, youthful face dominated by those unsettling dark eyes which were staring at Andrys Tarrant with the same detached, dispassionate arrogance they had already displayed on Black Ridge Pass.

Then the dark gaze moved away from Andrys and focused straightly on Damien with a fearsome finality that made Damien's hairs stand on end. No muscle moved in the young face, no smile graced the delicate features, but the knowing eyes locking with his own suddenly burned with an intensity that took Vryce's breath away, and he felt a shiver running down his spine. No, whoever this man was and whatever his intentions were he definitely wasn't either a mere spoiled brat or an innocuous youth on his way to the cathedral.

Vryce was still trying to process the situation when Andrys Tarrant's head turned into his direction as well and his frightened eyes fell on the former priest. A slight frown appeared on the young man's face, but soon enough realization hit, and Tarrant's weary visage, already bereft of colour, took on an ashen tone that remained Damien acutely of his undead ancestor's former hue.

Andrys' panicked gaze darted between Damien and the comely stranger, his mouth working silently, forming words that never found their way out of his heaving chest, and in that instant Damien couldn't help but feeling sorry for that poor soul whose shoulders were apparently burdened with a load much too heavy for them. Then he remembered Gerald's severed head, held up by his blood matted hair that had once been soft and silky, remembered the citizens gloating at the pitiful skull fastened to that bloody city gate, and those horrifying images quenched the soothing glow of empathy which had warmed his heart for a moment like an icy gush of water.

_Let him suffer_, a primeval part of his brain piped up ever so seductively, _suffer like Gerald most certainly had done in the last moments of his mortal life, having to face death all on his own. All on his own because you left him to die, you bloody hypocrite. But how can that vulking bastard dare to strut around in a copy of Gerald's armour, that little impostor and womanizer who'd never ridden into battle, had never led any army except that pompous crusade, and had in fact achieved just one thing in his otherwise meaningless life filled with whoring, drinking and gambling: he had killed a helpless man at the limits of his endurance who had just returned home from saving the world. _

A red mist veiled Damien's eyes, and his fingers clutched the hilt of his sword in a death grip while his body instinctively prepared for the deadly attack on its own accord. If the former priest still had been able to think clearly he might have been horrified at the wave of sheer hatred and bloodlust that was washing through him, but all sensible thought had deserted him, and it took him all his remaining resolve not to cut a path through the cheering crowd, still blissfully ignorant of the drama that took place in their midst, and pounce on the young man like a predator on his prey.

'_Going berserk is not a recommendable course of action, priest'_, a dry voice seemed to whisper inside his head, and slowly coming to his senses again Damien froze, petrified by a sure of panic and self-loathing. Dear God in Heaven, what was happening to him? That sickening urge to rid the world of Andrys Tarrant's presence once and for all, to slit the young man's throat and bathe in his blood, was so disgustingly vile and unfitting for a knight of the flame that it defied description, and for a second Damien felt like a man possessed.

Gerald's death at the hands of his last living descendant had been a terrible tragedy and a crushing personal loss, but in a way the execution _had_ been justice, whether Damien liked it or not. Whatever his personal feelings towards the young man Andrys had just been a tool, anyway, and Damien muttered a silent prayer, thanking God he had pulled out of his uncanny bout of feral fury just in time to prevent further damage…

Then Damien realized _what_ had actually stopped him from running amok, and he almost choked on his own breath. Maybe he _was_ a man possessed, after all, because the familiar, acerbic voice that had saved him from committing a heinous deed had belonged to no one but Gerald Tarrant, and that was absolutely impossible. Not even the Hunter could reach out to him from the realms of the dead, link or no link, couldn't he? Suddenly Damien wasn't so sure anymore. The sole alternative, namely going slowly but surely insane from sorrow and guilt, wasn't any more tempting though than the image of Tarrant's restless soul haunting him from the afterlife.

Meanwhile the solemn procession of armored riders had moved on, and looking up Damien realized that the unknown youth was still staring at him with a knowing gaze that did nothing to ease his growing apprehension. _Who are you, damn you?_

No slight twitch whatsoever marred the perfect repose of the young visage, but to his bewilderment Damien could have sworn that faint hint of amusement was lurking just beneath the serene façade.

_For a man of your intelligence you can be astoundingly slow on the uptake, priest._

That was the final straw for Damien. An invisible band of steel seemed to tighten around his chest, and his vision was narrowing to a tunnel while he desperately gasped for air. His stiff, clammy hands let go of the rains, and the racket of the crowd grew fainter and fainter until only a soft murmur remained. Then the world turned black, and Damien was already deeply unconscious as he slid sideward off his mare and hit the ground amidst the startled outcries of the baffled bystanders.


	3. Andrys

**Andrys**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit is intended

Author's note: Another story of mine which has Andrys kicking the bucket because of a failing heart; the phrase 'hereditary heart condition' is still Shadowy Star's intellectual property, and therefore I changed it to 'heart attack'. I hope everybody is satisfied now… ;-)

Warnings: none

„Wake up, sonny! You can't let the High and Mighty wait forever". The brittle voice finally cut through the fog of Damien's unconsciousness, and he cautiously opened his hazel eyes and blinked. Gradually his vision cleared, and his gaze focussed on the wrinkled face of old Larkin who was just about wringing a wet piece of flannel over an enamelled basin. Judging by the amount of moisture which was dripping off his face and onto the soft pillows supporting his aching head Damien didn't doubt that he'd been out cold for quite a while now, and never been prone to fits of fainting before he started to feel more than slightly worried.

„Finally", chortled the old man, „I'd just started thinking that you didn't want to return to the world of the living at all, son. Seems you've really caught a bad bug. You've been out for more than two hours now, you know."

Frowning Damien let his gaze wander through the unknown chamber where he apparently had been transferred to after the vulking fall off his mare. The golden afternoon sun shone on the dark, intricately carved wood of the heavy alteroak furniture and the matching parquet covered with overlapping layers of priceless silk rugs and glittered on evidently antique tapestries depicting peaceful bucolic scenes which were richly woven through with golden threads looking like the real thing. With a start the warrior knight realized that his hosts definitely weren't just common citizens of Jaggonath, and the old man at his side in his shabby grey not cotton trousers and faded shirt looked utterly misplaced in the lavish, luxurious surroundings.

_That makes two of us_, Damien thought grimly, and a slight feeling of uneasiness bloomed inside his stomach. Regarding the upcoming festivities in honour of Gerald's killer and the resulting onrush of visitors an unconscious stranger hardly seemed important enough to carry him to the mansion of one of Jaggonath's notables. Vryce had always done well to trust his gut feeling, and right now said feeling had acquired a rather insistent voice and was yelling loudly that something was very, very fishy about the whole business.

But if Gerald's wretched descendant had indeed spilled the beans that the unknown warrior knight and the former priest who had dared to ally with the Hunter were one and the same person, very likely he wouldn't rest in a bed with daintily embroidered linen sheets now but rot in a rat-infested dungeon, if, and that was an 'IF' written in capital letters, he had made it there in one piece at all, with regard to the fanatical masses crowding the streets in order to cheer for the returning crusaders.

Nonetheless Damien was very well aware that wild speculations wouldn't get him anywhere but on the well-trodden road to an especially bad headache. "But where the heck am I, Mer Larkin?" he enquired hoarsely. "That's not the Grand Hotel, I suppose?"

"The Grand Hotel?" Larkin echoed, chuckling with amusement. „Oh no, sonny. You're in the Lord Mayor's residence, by order of the young Neocount. You might not believe it, but the poor lad's right next door. He collapsed in our famous cathedral, and a lot of folks have been flocking in for quite a while now. Healers, I suppose. One grumpy fellow even stuck his nose in here and had a short look at you, but seemingly you weren't about biting the dust, and so he decided not to bother."

Damien stared at his companion, completely aghast, and his thoughts were racing. Already upon entering the city Andrys had looked the worse for wear, his feverish green eyes burning in a haggard face which could have belonged to a man twice his age, and the strange events which had taken place at the parade had doubtlessly done their stint to aggravate his condition. Evidently the warrior knight hadn't been the only one who had finally broken under the strain of the recent events, and for a fleeting moment Damien couldn't help but succumbing to a touch of pity for the young man who'd presented a mere tool in a ruthless struggle for power between forces which were far beyond his comprehension.

Vryce's reflections were abruptly stopped when the door opened and a stout, sandy-haired fellow in a red and blue livery, the colours of Jaggonath's coat of arms, entered the ornate chamber. "Reverend Vryce?"

Damien stifled a sigh. As usual his gut feeling hadn't betrayed him, and his incognito had been revealed at a rather inopportune moment, whether by Andrys himself or by somebody else who had remembered his face. Fortunately his sword with its flame patterned hilt was leaning to the nightstand, sparing him the utmost humiliation of getting caught defenseless, and for that small mercy Vryce sent a silent, but nonetheless grateful prayer to the One God of his faith.

With a groan the warrior knight laboriously pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as if in pain and thereby deliberately exaggerating his weakness. If the situation escalated and things turned nasty being underestimated could signify a vital advantage over his opponents, and Damien was bloody well determined to exploit that ancient, tried and tested trick for his benefit.

'I'm glad you've at least partially reacquired you wits, priest', a familiar voice dripping with its accustomed sarcasm cut into his musings, and Vryce froze with sheer panic. Not again! It couldn't be true, it just wasn't possible. Gerald was dead, beheaded by his last living descendant, and his pitiable remains were currently the laughing stock of the populace. But why the hell did he hear the adept's voice so clearly, as if the damn bastard was standing right by his side? Perhaps his assumption that the part of Tarrant's soul which had been transferred to him when they had completed their bond hadn't made it to the afterlife, but was still trapped inside him, finding no peace and exerting revenge for Damien's betrayal by haunting him with acerbic comments until his dying day had been correct after all.

That wasn't a very comforting thought, and cold sweat broke out on Damien's brow, but gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering he pulled himself together. Although the better part of his heart and soul had died with his companion he had no intention of finding himself chained up in a mental asylum or in one of the city's numerous prisons.

„I am Damien Kilcannon Vryce," Damien replied firmly, with as much dignity as he could muster. Denial wouldn't get him anywhere, but just serve to heighten the suspicions. "What can I do for you?"

No trace of hostility showed on the man's ruddy face, but only eager officiousness. "His Excellency, the Neocount of Merentha, will grant you an audience now. Do you feel strong enough, Reverend?"

Vryce felt sorely tempted to burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. Strong enough to face the man who had killed his companion, the very man whose beautiful visage so uncannily resembled Gerald's that just gazing at those delicate features wouldn't fail to raise an unbidden tide of black despair in his soul again, wave after wave crashing down on him and drowning him in their lethal embrace? For that ordeal he'd never feel strong enough, not until the cows came home, and for a second the former priest seriously contemplated pushing the town guard out of his way and fighting his way out of the Lord Mayor's mansion, if need be, but the voice of reason which had substituted Tarrant's light tenor for now convinced him otherwise.

Perhaps the guard would even let him pass without raising objections, but if he walked out of this place he would never know what was going on and why Andrys Tarrant of all people on Erna wanted to talk to him.

Over the last years he had endured the deaths of several members of their fellowship, Gerald feeding on his blood and terror for months on end and the separation from his church, not to mention the atrocious spectacle of the adept's severed head which had easily surpassed all the numerous horrors he'd already witnessed during their struggle to save mankind from Calesta's clutches. Unlike his unfortunate companions he had survived all vicissitudes of fate, and one devastatingly painful incident more or less on his agenda wasn't likely to kill him.

With effort Damien heaved his wobbly legs over the edge of his bed, pulled on his boots and got up. At first the room spun around him nauseatingly, but the dizziness and the tremble in his aching bones gradually subsided, and Vryce reached for his sword.

„I'm sorry, Reverend Vryce. I can either take it into custody, or you companion has an eye on it until you return from your audience, but you have to leave your sword behind."

Maybe the fellow was truly sorry, but Damien was quite sure that he wouldn't weep into his pillow at night because of his objection, and anyway the warrior knight had no intention of walking into the lion's den unarmed.

„The hell I will! " Vryce retorted rather bluntly, "I'm a Knight of the Order of the Golden Flame, and the sword will go where I go. Do I make myself clear?"

Taken aback by Damien's fierce refusal the man blinked and blanched a few shades. "Completely clear, Reverend. But I've got my orders, and as a Knight of the Flame you will certainly understand that order's have to be obeyed, won't you? But I will check if an exception can be made for you. Please wait until I come back."

Vryce hastily fastened the sword at his belt, and he had just finished his task when the guard reappeared. Apparently an exception _had_ been made for him, and he was led the short way to Andrys' adjacent chamber without further delay.

Tarrant's sick room was twice as big as his own and even more pompously decorated with its stunning crystal chandelier and the priceless, centuries-old pictures in their ornate, gilded frames, and the emaciated young man half buried under silken quilts looked utterly lost in the enormous king-size bed which could have been a comfortable haven for a family of six.

The novebony nightstand was packed with potions and medical equipment, and a veritable gaggle of bickering elderly men garbed in the dark green robes of senior healers fluttered around the bed like vultures descending on their prey. At Andrys' side sat the beautiful pagan girl Damien still vaguely remembered from that accursed day at the Hunter's keep, although the capacity of his brain had been somewhat limited back then, stultified by the horrendous sight of Gerald's chopped off head thrown into a blazing fire by the same slender hand which was clinging to the dark-haired girl's fingers like a lifeline now.

While Damien was still busy both getting an overview of the situation and a resemblance of emotional control from the corners of his eyes a stealthy movement caught his attention, and the warrior knight gasped, completely nonplussed, while his right hand unconsciously convulsed around the hilt of his sword in a death grip. The guard at his side stiffened with apprehension, evidently expecting an attack by the irascible stranger, but he shouldn't have worried, because Vryce's capability for action had deserted him completely by now, and the former priest stood rooted to the spot, his mouth hanging agape.

An inconspicuous side door had been shut without so much as a faint click, but Damien could have sworn that he had caught a fleeting glimpse of a red silk shirt and a long, black braid, two attributes which were slowly but surely getting a bit familiar. _What the heck…?_

"Please leave us for a moment. I wish to speak with the priest. Alone!" a strained, barely audible whisper somehow managed to interrupt the heated discussion, and he tried to focus his attention on more urgent matters than the damned youth from Black Ridge Pass. Andrys' eyes were glassy and his voice slurred, and the former priest suspected that the young man had been administered a strong analgesic to relieve his pain.

Rather astounded looks were exchanged between the members of the healing profession, but to Damien's amazement they complied with Tarrant's request and stalked off in a huff, followed by the young woman who kissed Andrys' forehead and squeezed his hand reassuringly before she left the room with a mournful, anxious glance in Damien's direction. Then the door closed, and when the eyes of the two men met at long last Vryce was flabbergasted at the doleful expression in the young man's tired gaze.

„For what I have to tell you I don't need any witnesses, Reverend",

Damien's barking laughter didn't contain a single trace of mirth but sounded like a strangled sob instead. "Don't you, Andrys? And what else is there to say, I wonder? You shot a helpless man, a _human being_ whom God in his wisdom had granted a precious second chance, hacked off his head and fed it to the flames. Isn't that enough? Do you want to torture me with a vivid description of Gerald's last minutes? Relish in rendering his last words? Or do have the nerve to dish out the vulking lie that he begged for his life on his knees like a bloody coward? Spare your breath; I'd never believe you, anyway." Shaking the warrior knight buried his face into his hands in a desperate effort to hide his tears of helpless wrath.

"I'm sorry, Reverend. I know how you feel."

"_You_ know how I feel?" Damien didn't even realize that he stepped closer in three long strides, looming over Tarrant like a hawk over a mouse, and his voice was quiet, but deadly. "You still live because the more civilized part of my personality has to acknowledge that in a way your ancestor died for his crimes, that the killing was justice long overdue, but the snarling beast laying in wait inside me would rejoice at ramming my sword through your wretched heart. What I feel when I have to look at your damned beautiful visage, that vile mockery of Gerald's features, is beyond your comprehension, _Your Excellency_. If you truly knew my emotions you wouldn't dare to face me all on your own in your pretty big bed but surround yourself with an impenetrable ring of armour and swords."

From some hidden reserves inside him Andrys dredged up the strength to push himself into a sitting position until his face was a mere few inches away from Vryce's nose, and his face flushed a blotchy red. „I bloody well know how you feel when you see my visage, Reverend", the young man spat venomously, "the very visage I have to face each and every time I come across a mirror, a nice remembrance of the accursed hour I returned home from my misguided revelries just to find the gory remains of my family, hacked to pieces by an undead look-alike of mine. Do you really think I'm happy about that damned inheritance? That I value my beauty? Dear God, there was a time when I would have paid any price for another face, for different genes. Just face it, priest. You don't have a monopoly on suffering. "

Andrys paused and tried to catch his breath. „Don't try to fool me, Reverend. When we first met I considered you the most god-forsaken, corrupted human being I'd ever met, but you are no assassin who attacks a helpless man in his sickbed. But maybe you can spare yourself the trouble of killing me, anyway", the young man gasped. „I just had a heart attack, and I can't help noticing some glum faces around me. A bitter irony, isn't it?"

Speechless Vryce stared at the adept's executioner, and an icy shiver ran down his back. So even in death Gerald Tarrant was extracting vengeance on his murderer, and considering Andrys' pale, haggard face and his desperate struggling for air which reminded him so much of his ancestor's heart failure at the knees of Mount Shaitan the former priest came to the conclusion that the young man very likely wasn't for this world much longer. If the Neocountess of Merentha wasn't already pregnant with his child the bloodline Gerald had founded so many centuries ago would possibly perish with his last living descendant.

His outburst had evidently robbed Andrys of the better part of his remaining strength, and after gulping down a glass of water he sagged back with a moan, his face as white as the embroidered silken pillows. Nonetheless he staunchly met Damien's questioning gaze, one of his eyebrows raised sardonically in a fashion that acutely reminded Vryce of his late companion, and once again the striking similarity between the two men shook him to the core. Then he remembered the adept's skull exhibited for public amusement, and struck by a wave of naked repugnance his features hardened again.

„I might be willing to forgive you your act of revenge influenced by Calesta's manipulations" the warrior knight rasped after swallowing a mouthful of bile, "but there's no vulking excuse for allowing the exhibition of your ancestor's mortal remains for public amusement like a wild beast in a menagerie. That's barbaric, Andrys, and not befitting a servant of the church, something you claim to be. Seems to be a family trait, by the way."

"Are you talking about the skull those foolish idiots nailed to the city gate?" Tarrant snorted full of disdain, and Vryce couldn't help but noticing that evidently the young man had truly inherited more than just his ancestor's pleasant looks. "I didn't call you here to vie for your pity, but to lighten your burden, Reverend Vryce. Rest assured. I don't know the name of the skull's unfortunate owner, but it's definitely not goddamn Gerald Tarrant's head. Do you understand the… implications of that statement?"

Damien's knees buckled, and he sat down rather abruptly on the next available chair. His head was swimming, and he was quite sure that his face had just assumed the same unhealthy hue as the young lad's whose green gaze contained more than a faint trace of amusement by now. Wild, crazy hope stirred inside the warrior knight for the first time since his companion's supposed death, and it took him a while until he found his voice again.

„In God's holy name, man", Vryce croaked, at the end of his tether, „stop beating around the bush and tell me what happened after I …when Gerald…". Damien faltered, and try as he might he wasn't able to force another word through his constricted throat.

„You're very fond of him, aren't you?" The eyes of the two men met again, and Vryce was amazed at the compassion in Andrys' gaze. Then realization hit him with the force of a brick. ‚You ARE fond of him', the young man had just said, not 'you WERE'. Presence, not past, and Damien's racing heart skipped a beat, but as much as he wanted to shake the answers out of Tarrant all he could manage in his current state was a faint nod.

"I thought so." Andrys' exhaustion was almost palpable, but he smiled. "Shall I tell you why it's not the Hunter's head at the city gate? He bewitched you, used that link of yours to make you leave because he didn't want you to die. A strange display of affection for evil incarnate, isn't it? But that's all I can tell you, Reverend."

"Not much", Damien grumbled. "And how comes the strange youth into play, I wonder? You know whom I mean: black braid, red silk shirt, leather pants. Saw him disappearing into the wings the second I entered the room. He tried to chat me up on Black Ridge Pass a week ago, but I wasn't in the mood for talking.

"The _youth_?" Let's say he's a distant cousin of mine who will inherit my title if I die without siring an heir. Maybe you should have listened when he approached you, Mer Vryce. He might have told you a very enlightening story" Andrys replied with an amused twitch of his mouth, but all at once his barely recognizable smirk faded, and he gripped Vryce's hand with a fierce strength belying the decline of his ailing body.

"Listen, Reverend! It's not very likely that we will talk to each other again, and I would like to ask you a favour. My life's not exactly been a role model with my drinking and whoring and _lying_, and the Lord and I might have a lot to settle when we meet soon. Will you pray for me?"

The hoarse voice trailed off, strangled by Andrys' ragged breathing, and a trickle of sweat was running down the young man's temples. Taking in the anguish in those intriguing emerald depths Damien picked up a cloth on the nightstand and gently wiped the moisture off Andrys' face without a second thought. "I strongly doubt that God and I are currently on good terms, Your Excellency", the warrior knight muttered, "but I promise I will do my best."

Tarrant sighed and relaxed visibly, although his breath was still coming in heavy gasps. "Thank you, Reverend", the Neocount murmured with a faint ghost of a smile on his pale lips. "And now hurry after my _cousin_. He's the key…the key…"

The last words were but an almost inaudible whisper, and Damien bent over the young man, fearing the worst. Thank goodness Andrys was still breathing, albeit only faintly, but the strain of their conversation had finally gotten the better of him, and he had dozed off into the realms of sleep.

Damien rang for the healers, squeezed Tarrant's limp, damp hand again in a last good-bye and left the room without looking back. The hunt for his pretty, elusive prey had begun, and as sure as day follows night the vulking black-haired stranger would have to answer a lot of questions at their next meeting.


	4. Falada

**Falada**

Warnings: slash, but nothing explicit for a change

A/N 1: Had to change Falada's little speech (he just couldn't call Gerald _'my princess fair'_...;-)) and the words of the princess turned goose girl for obvious reasons (e.g. Hawthorne's hair is black and not 'ruddy gold' and he doesn't wear his hair plaited in a crown). Sorry for not being able to get the last two lines to rhyme properly. I'm not a poet, and it will have to do. Here are the original quotations:

"Wind, wind, gently sway,  
Blow Curdken's hat away;  
Let him chase o'er field and wold  
Till my locks of ruddy gold,  
Now astray and hanging down,  
Be combed and plaited in a crown."

Falada: 'Tis you; pass under, princess fair / If your mother only knew / Her heart would surely break in two

I wanted to give you the link just in case you'd like to read the whole fairy tale, but somehow it doesn't work. As far as I can remember I used an annotated version of the text, but there are many, many versions of it. In the original story the scene wherein Falada talks to his mistress happens thrice, but I didn't want to bore the pants off you and decided that once was enough...;-).

A/N 2: I know very well that a horse can't talk and Falada calling Hawthorne 'my master fair' comes dangerously close to jeopardizing the adept's continuing existence (connection to his past), but after all we are in a fairy tale, aren't we? Same of course goes for Gerald conjuring up the gust of wind that lands Damien in the lake.

A/N 3: Although we've got a pretty, male adept instead of a goose girl you will see soon that a flock of geese indeed makes a short guest appearance...;-)

A/N 4: I apologize for the time it took me to finish this fic, but sometimes your muse can be quite uncooperative...

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Moving as if in a trance Damien returned to the room with the big bed he had regained consciousness in what seemed like a lifetime ago. Larkin's wrinkled face brightened visibly at the sight of him, but his mind still reeling with the events of the day and the unbelievable revelations which had been sprung upon him the warrior knight didn't in the least feel equal to tolerate the old man's jarring company. After having pressed a few coins into his gnarled hands and asking him to drink on his health he bid his companion good-bye and made for the stables to fetch his mare.

Gauging the time Vryce reckoned that he had about three hours of daylight left, enough and to spare for a short ride into the countryside. Try as he might he simply couldn't digest that Gerald hadn't perished at the hands of his last living descendant as he had presumed for weeks but had somehow survived the annihilation of his domain. Sensing that his time would be up soon Andrys had obviously wanted to ease his conscience and Damien's burden alike before death finally claimed him, and deep down in his heart Damien didn't harbour a sliver of doubt that the young Neocount had told nothing but the truth and the man he had mourned more than each and everyone in his whole life was still among the living.

Very much to the warrior knight's chagrin his initial nameless relief had soon been replaced by a surge of annoyance and hurt pride. If the adept was indeed alive and kicking why the heck hadn't the vulking son of a bitch deigned to contact him as soon as possible? Delivering him from the shattering self-reproaches for walking out on his companion in his hour of need which had very nearly driven him to suicide would have cost thrice damned Gerald Tarrant just a few words, but after saving his butt at the Keep out of a sense of duty doubtlessly inspired by his damned Revivalist code of honour the cold-blooded bastard had evidently considered all debts cleared and had wandered off into his new-found mortal life without sparing a further thought on his discarded ally.

The warrior knight's heart clenched painfully inside his chest. Presumably after a thousand years in attendance on the Forces of the Dark the former Hunter didn't have it in him to truly care for another human being any longer, but after all they had gone through side by side he had hoped that he had earned the adept's respect and tentative friendship at the very least. Evidently he had cherished futile illusions once again where Tarrant was concerned, and that insight hurt more than all the wounds he had received in combat combined.

Damien stifled a sigh and kicked his mare into a trot. Whether he liked it or not he had to face the fact that the unsettling feelings for Gerald which must have been blooming inside him for quite a while before that nightmare version of Merentha Castle had been blown to pieces by the crusaders weren't mutual after all and that in all probability he would never set eyes on Tarrant's beautiful visage again. Getting a bit of fresh air would hopefully do its bit for clearing his mind and calming down his rattled nerves.

Most of the hawkers were already shutting down their stalls with souvenirs and creature comforts, but the streets of Jaggonath were still crowded with idle strollers in their Sunday best and dusty, tired citizens heading home after a hard day of work alike, and without a doubt the taverns would be packed to the brim with throngs of nosy punters burning to gossip about the young Neocount's collapse and the subsequent cancellation of his inauguration ceremony. For a moment youthful features dominated by those dark, hypnotic eyes replaced the ever-present empty stare of a severed head in Damien's overwrought mind, and he wondered whether he should modify his plans and try to find the vulking youth in one of the numerous pubs over a glass of ale or two. However improbable Andrys had been insistent that the black-haired stranger represented the key to the whole mystery surrounding Tarrant's fate, but in Vryce's current state he just couldn't face the babble about the Hunter's demise and his supposed slaughterer's mishap once more. Quickly the warrior knight abandoned the idea and rode on, inexplicably drawn to the wretched place where the blackened skull was still baring its teeth in a ghastly parody of a human smile.

The farther he approached the outskirts of Jaggonath the more deserted the streets appeared, and the big plaza which had been literally overflowing with people eagerly awaiting the arrival of the crusaders that very morning was nigh to empty with the notable exception of a single horseman who leisurely made for the northern gate as well. By now Damien knew the slender figure and the long, black braid much to well for his peace of mind, and stricken to the core he stalled his mare and froze in the saddle, his shaking hands clenched tightly around the reigns.

Right in front of the gate with its repulsive decoration the youth paused and spoke up. "Oh! Falada, 'tis you hang there."

To Vryce's utmost horror the jaws of the embalmed horse's head started to move slowly and a hollow, unearthly voice rung out which made his hairs stand on end. "'Tis you; pass under, my master fair / If your beloved only knew / His heart would surely break in two."

Almost choking on his breath the warrior knight goggled at the blood-curdling scene which was taking place right before his eyes. During his travels at the behest of the Church of Unification and his suicidal mission in the company of the Hunter he had seen lethal places where no human foot was supposed to tread and battled many a grisly demon, had witnessed the terrible deaths of cherished friends and the torture of hapless innocents, and those scenes still haunted him in his nightmares. Night after night he woke up drenched in sweat and crying like a frightened child from stumbling half crazed with dread through Tarrant's personal hell at Karril's side or helplessly watching his unfortunate friend's head thrown onto a blazing bonfire, and presumably the day's events had just represented the last straw which had finally driven him over the edge. If Gerald was truly still alive hearing his voice inside his head wasn't too far fetched a thought with regard to their special link, but a long deceased_ horse_ talking in rhyme to a bypassing rider doubtlessly was an altogether different matter in a world where the fae had been finally tamed after taking an appalling death toll on the life of the human colonists for almost 1450 years.

When Vryce came halfway to his senses again the stranger had already passed through the gate, and with a valiant effort he pulled himself together and hurried after him, dead set on keeping his eyes glued on Andrys' enigmatic_ 'distant cousin'_. Tarrant had always been the brainiac of their fellowship, but Damien was no fool either, and he would be damned if the whole thing didn't look very, very fishy. If he hadn't completely lost his marbles and those pitiable remains of a true horse from the Hunter's breeding stock had indeed miraculously acquired the capacity for human speech _Falada_ had called the youth _'my master fair'_, and the implication of that appellation was enough and to spare to turn the warrior knight's blood to ice water in his veins. In life Tarrant's black, indomitable animals had had no other master but the Prince of Jahanna himself, destroyer and saviour in personal union and the one and only man he had ever fallen for.

His head buzzing like a nubeehive Vryce let his thoughts wander to the day not long ago when the _spoiled brat_ had tried to chat him up on Black Ridge Pass, his fathomless gaze brimming with a so very familiar arrogance and haughty condescension that a dagger to his heart couldn't have been more painful. The very same youth had stared right into his eyes when Gerald's dry voice had very nearly frightened him out of his wits a mere few hours ago, and an idea slowly started to form in his mind, an idea so outrageous that the former priest shied away from its logical conclusion like a frightened horse.

Deeply lost in thought Damien almost failed to register that the stranger had dismounted and made himself comfortable on the shore of a small, idyllic lake. Unfrogs croaked their vespertine concert, reeds swayed in the gentle breeze, and a flock of nugeese waddled through them in their never-ending search for sustenance. In stark contrast to his tumultuous emotions the bucolic tableau was so peaceful that for a fleeting moment Vryce felt as if he had dropped right into a fairy tale, and impression not in the least diminished by the sight of the youth perched gracefully on a boulder and combing his pitch-black mane of hair reaching all the way down to the small of his back. Literally unable to stir a limb the warrior knight remained in the saddle and gaped at the fabulous scene, his heart in his mouth.

His pretty face with its high cheekbones and unblemished olive skin utterly serene the young man returned his look without so much as batting an eyelash, the black eyes which had burned with the very same intensity and unflinching determination Damien remembered so well from Black Ridge Pass a few hours ago detached and appraising. "Good evening, Mer. Did you come here just to enjoy this scenic spot, or do have a date with someone?"

The stranger's voice was as cool and impassive as the water surface sparkling in the last rays of the dying sun, and a cold shiver ran down the warrior knight's spine. Whoever this man was he apparently didn't take any pleasure in his company, and for a fleeting second Vryce contemplated returning to Jaggonath without having achieved anything, but he knew very well that he would be unable to find any peace of mind ever again if he let the matter rest now. "Who _are_ you, damn you?" Damien blurted out, his nerves at breaking point.

"Who I am? You travelled a long way just to ask me a question which could have already been answered on Black Ridge Pass if you had spared some of your precious time for listening to me, Reverend Vryce. A lost opportunity never returns, or so it is said."

Something inside the warrior knight snapped, and in a heartbeat he was off his mare and approached the youth in three long strides, his hands balled menacingly into fists. "Don't play your vulking games with me, you bastard!" he roared exasperatedly. "I've had it up to here with everybody talking in riddles. First your cousin Andrys, may God help him, and now you! I want some answers, and in case you aren't willing to justify yourself to me I don't mind shaking them out of you!"

A flash of defiance passed over the comely features, and before Damien could put his plans into action the stranger jumped to his feet in a blink and narrowed his eyes in concentration. Vryce had seen the very same expression on the Hunter's face countless times when the adept had prepared for a Working, and he was still staring in open wonder when the young man spoke:

"Wind, wind, gently sway,  
Blow the Reverend far away;  
Let him stray o'er field and track  
Till my strands of raven black,  
Now astray and hanging down,  
Be combed and plaited once again."

The fierce gust of wind hitting him out of the blue wasn't gentle in the least, and before Damien knew it he lost his balance and joined the inhabitants of the accursed lake with a loud splash. Coughing and spluttering and his head richly adorned with several kinds of the aquatic plant life the warrior knight resurfaced just to come face to face with his sneering nemesis who had evidently taken advantage of the opportunity and had finished his open air hairdressing session. "Honestly, Reverend!" the youth snorted disdainfully. "I just don't see how a choleric person like you could make it that far up in the Church hierarchy. Let's hope that your involuntary bath somehow managed to cool down your flaring temper."

Quite the contrary, but with regard to the almost palpable waves of power still radiating from the deceptively fragile-looking body in front of him Damien deemed it wiser to exercise restraint and refrain from giving in to the overwhelming urge to wipe the sardonic smile off the youthful countenance with his bare hands. Fuming he stripped off the offending crown of vegetable origin and scrambled ashore, well aware that attacking the insufferable son of a bitch would get him nowhere but back into the chilly waters again.

Try as he might the warrior knight couldn't imagine how the the damned stranger had been capable of a Working on a planet where adepts and sorcerers alike had to be prepared for the ultimate sacrifice for months now if they dared to harness the earth fae for their purposes, but for the time being there were more urgent matters to consider. The sun had already disappeared over the horizon, and so late in the year the temperature was dropping blisteringly fast. Trembling in every limb Vryce made for his saddle bags, counting his blessings that overtaken by the chain of events he hadn't found time for checking in at a guest house yet and was still carrying all his meagre worldly possessions with him.

His teeth clattering Damien stripped stark naked without giving a damn for modesty and rummaged through his bags in search of a replacement for his soaked garments. He had just helped himself to his last pair of socks, a reasonably clean shirt and black trousers which had undeniably had seen better days without paying too much attention to his surroundings when a slender hand resting on his shoulder as light as a feather very nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Maybe you should towel yourself first and get your blood circulation going again, Reverend. You're shaking like a leaf, and your lips have acquired a rather unhealthy blue hue. Despite priding yourself on your iron constitution you don't seem to respond well to cold baths", the stranger added thoughtfully, "and other than in the rakhlands this time there won't be the Hunter and his coldfire around to cleanse your bloodstream of an infection. Like almost everybody else you lost your ability to Work, and as much as I regret it my own Healing skills are a bit rusty due to sheer lack of practice."

Thunderstruck the warrior knight whirled around, not quite believing his ears. There was no mistaking the undercurrent in the calm voice for anything but honest concern, but how on Earth and Erna had the damned bastard obtained the knowledge of his plunge into the river and the ensuing sickness in the first place? Maybe Andrys had briefed his cousin about his name and title, but there was no way that Tarrant's last living descendant could have notice of the adventures of the fellowship. Death had closed Senzei's and Hesseth's mouths forever long ago, and as far as he knew the loremaster Ciani still hadn't returned to the human lands. That left only vulking Gerald Tarrant as a confidant, and the sneaking suspicion he had entertained while witnessing that eerie encounter at the city gate returned with a vengeance. His fingers digging deeply into his palms and his heart hammering a wild staccato of hope the former priest stood as stiff as a statue when the youth wrapped him snugly in a woollen blanket he must have fetched from his stallion while Damien had busied himself with his search for dry clothing.

Slender hands which belied their strength commenced to rub him dry like a toddler emerging from the bathtub, and his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the intoxicating, heady scent of a spicy perfume perfectly complementing the stranger's exotic appearance the warrior knight's treacherous body reacted in a most inappropriate way to the young man's close proximity and his ministrations. To Vryce's utmost embarrassment a surge of arousal spread from his abdomen throughout his whole body and drove away the icy chill which had threatened to freeze the marrow in his bones.

Sensing his predicament the youth's kissable lips curled into a faint smile, and his eyes sparkled with barely veiled amusement. "With regard to your amorous adventures with the lady Ciani and your unfortunate pilot I wouldn't have thought it possible that you fancied a man, Vryce, but obviously it's never too late to learn."

Before he had developed a crush on the Hunter Damien wouldn't have considered bedding a guy in his wildest dreams himself, but for the time being he couldn't spare more than a fleeting thought on the issue of his sexual orientation. That slightly husky voice bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the light tenor he longed to hear calling him _'Vryce'_ in a so very well known inflection fired his imagination once again, and his mind reeling with the insane conclusion forcing itself on him with all its might the warrior knight felt himself tearing up very much against his will. "In fact I _did_ fancy a man once", he choked out between gritted teeth, his strangled words oozing with bitterness welling up from a bottomless pit deep inside him, "but that cunning bastard seemingly put on a show for my benefit and was never seen again. Got bored with toying with me, I suppose."

"Ah, the Hunter. I understand. As you should be able to guess I don't make a habit of explaining myself, and if you're keen on my continuing presence you had better come to terms with the fact that Gerald Tarrant is dead. While we're at it let me introduce myself, though. Gerald _Hawthorne_, at your service."

The youth who wasn't a youth at all stepped back and bowed with a flourish, an antiquated gesture right out of the Revivalist period, and despite his chaotic state of mind Damien couldn't help but marvelling at the elegance and gracefulness of the motion. If that wiry, juvenile body indeed housed the ancient soul of Tarrant who had cheated death anew whatever had come to pass in the bowels of the Hunter's keep evidently had neither destroyed the adept's capacity for raising his hackles nor his aristocratic, genteel demeanour in spite of the changed appearance.

Long, tanned fingers gently touching his cheek brought Damien back to the here and now with a start. "Maybe some lost opportunities _do_ return after all, Vryce. What do you think about postponing bringing you up to scratch and moving on to pastimes of a different kind instead? If you don't intent to spend the next week in bed you have to get warm again, and there are much more delectable methods than gymnastics or a run around the lake."

The warrior knight blinked, at the loss of words. With regard to his unambiguously ambiguous smile and the determined hand slipping daringly under the blanket Hawthorne obviously wasn't alluding to a heated discussion about theology or a mean game of poker, but although he was no less a breathtakingly beautiful sight to behold than the Hunter and the primeval part of Vryce usually buried safely under layers of civilization screamed at him to take the chance of a lifetime and worry about the consequences later his wounded soul couldn't keep up with the turn of events yet.

By now Damien was reasonably positive about the alluring stranger's identity, but try as he might he simply couldn't blink the fact that Tarrant had indeed walked out of him, had left him to a purgatory of shame and guilt until he had so desperately craved for meeting the man he loved again whether in heaven or in hell that he had very nearly taken matters into his own hands. Admittedly Gerald had sought him out on Black Ridge Pass if somewhat belatedly, but his heart still a bleeding mess Vryce had no intention of getting his hopes up prematurely just to be ditched again when the adept eventually tired of his latest plaything.

"I needed time, Vryce", a soft voice interrupted his frantic mental ramblings. "Time to sort things out, to adjust to the... altered circumstances. Surely you deserved to know, but...". The adept cut himself off with a barely discernible shrug and a low sigh, and registering his rising frustration Damien was just about telling him not to bother when the channel opened wide, flooding his mind with familiar and yet so different images and emotions.

All at once he was back in the Hunter's keep again, seeing the world through Tarrant's eyes. Exhausted beyond the limits of tolerance, revoltingly filthy and mortally afraid not just for his own freshly regained human existence but for the man who had succored him from the abysses of hell just to walk willingly into death's gaping maw at his side he found himself at the mercy of his last living descendant. Andrys was facing him with a disconcerting glimmer of madness in his green eyes, and he knew with absolute certainty that death had finally caught up with him. Vryce's sturdy body was already tensing up for a last desperate attack, ready to take the bolt for him and die in his stead, but to his amazement he simply couldn't bring himself to let the priest pay the ultimate price for his sins. Well aware that Damien would never desert him of his own free will he used the link to infiltrate his friend's mind and send him to safety, his burning eyes locked on that dear, rugged face in a last good-bye.

Who would have thought then that this act of true compassion had moved Andrys to abstain from going for the kill but settle for the bargain Gerald had offered him in a last ditch attempt to save his life instead? Anyway the sacrifice of an identity which had spanned nigh to a millennium had bought him sufficient power for a final shape-shift and the additional bonus of regaining his capacity to Work, but with regard to Vryce's dismissive attitude very likely he had put something even more valuable in the balance than his title, name, looks and domain, a very regrettable fact indeed.

Damien wasn't even aware that tears were running down his face when the mind-blowing torrent of Gerald's reminiscences finally came to an end. Unbelievably Tarrant saving him hadn't been a mere act of duty and honour but a matter of the heart, and the burden which had weighed the warrior knight down like a bloody millstone lifted considerably. Notwithstanding the adept had given him hell for the last months, and Vryce had no intention of letting him off the hook so easily. "And what are you going to do if I don't play by your book, Gerald? Help me to the second involuntary bath in a day?"

Hawthorne swallowed convulsively, and despite the waning light Damien could have sworn that the colour rose in his face. "That wasn't planned, Vryce, and I apologize for the incident", the adept whispered uncomfortably. "Although I'm loth to admit it controlling the fae isn't that easy anymore, not even for me. Maybe I went a tad overboard, but it won't happen again. Should you come to the conclusion that you're better off without me I won't put obstacles in your way."

The piercing gaze burning into his soul wasn't distanced any longer but brimming with barely veiled anxiety and affection, and Vryce's breath caught in his throat. Centuries of knowledge, of good deeds and evil beyond mortal reckoning and all the shades of gray in between were swirling in the mesmerizing dark eyes, and drowning in those fathomless depths the warrior knight at long last found his inner peace for the first time in years and forgave everything. Whatever Gerald's reasons for taking some time out now he was right here at his side, alive, healthy and so very human, and that was all that mattered. "Can't deny that you are quite a pain in the arse sometimes", Damien grinned broadly, "but my life would be vulking boring without you to turn it upside down every now and then. Just promise me that I won't have to serve as a training object for your Workings on a regular basis."

The adept huffed and rolled his eyes, but in the next instance slender arms circled Vryce's waist and soft lips captured his own in a kiss. Losing himself in the feel of Gerald's tongue exploring his mouth and the lithe frame grinding against him in an anything but innocent manner Damien was just marginally aware that the itchy blanket was slowly sliding to the ground, soon enough followed by Hawthorne's clothes which provided a halfway convenient padding for their tangled limbs. Time would show what would come out of his union, but although with regard to Gerald's peculiar character Vryce very much doubted that their life together would always be a bed of roses he was more than willing to accept the challenge. Then a hot, aroused body rolled on top of him, and Damien stopped thinking altogether.

And they all lived happily ever after...;-)


End file.
